A Morning in Belgrade, Yugoslavia.

She lumbers across the kitchen towards the derelict wooden table. Having put down a cup of freshly made coffee she takes the last cigarette out of a mutilated pack, lights it and then gives a long puff. The chair creeks as she reclines to prop her head with a strong, chubby hand. The housewife is up to make some breakfast for the hungry family.
At ten minutes to seven she manipulates chunks of bread and slices of ham, boils eggs and cooks the milk. The steam adds to the clamminess of the kitchen for it already has an air of a bog. For a moment her routine surliness wavers towards amiable…